


Public Interface

by jenna_thorn



Category: Iron Man (movies, Marvel Avengers Movies Universe
Genre: Gen, Jossed, Written Pre-Movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-26
Updated: 2012-04-26
Packaged: 2017-11-04 08:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna_thorn/pseuds/jenna_thorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SHIELD's PR team leader has to deal with with Stark's press conferences, Hulk's fondness for leveling public buildings and repeated violations of international airspace. You know she's to be a force to be reckoned with.</p>
<p>
  <i>Her smile was disarmingly sweet. “I promise, I won’t make you dance. Kissing babies is also off the table.” </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Oh thank you,” he said, and realized how it sounded when she tilted her head at him. “Not that I don’t like babies! Babies are great! I mean… they …" He sighed. "They throw up unexpectedly. It’s .. awkward.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“I’m not putting you on tour, Captain, just coordinating an event for which you need to show up, mind your manners, and if possible, keep Iron Man’s mask on and mouth shut.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. SHIELD HQ

Chapter One: SHIELD HQ

Steve opened the door to find the Colonel leaning over a middle aged woman seated in Fury’s usual chair at the head of the table. Fury looked up as Steve closed the door. “You remember Brenda, Cap?”

“The public affairs person, right?” Steve narrowed his eyes. At the TV studio, before the cameras started rolling and the audience doors blew in and everything collapsed into screaming citizens, he’d been marveling at the changes in stage paint between 1940 and 2010 while watching Tony meekly agree as Brenda had delineated exactly what he could and couldn’t say. The first time a camera got to Tony without Brenda in the way had taught him why she had done so, but he stayed a little intimidated by her sensible shoes and perfect skin and carefully styled hair. 

The fact that she’d stood at the studio door, pulling civilians out while he stood on the stage, one foot braced on the desk with David Letterman crouched behind it, was neither more nor less intimidating than Tony’s unexpected docility. He figured she had some kind of superpower; he just wasn’t sure what it was. She smiled and stuck out one hand and he shook it gently.

“In light of the agreement with the city, we’ll be making a series of –“

Fury interrupted, “Carefully controlled.”

Brenda continued, “…public appearances with representatives of the Initiative, of which you --.’

Fury said, “As the most responsible.”

“ … as team leader and the public face of the team, will be asked to participate most often.”

“Barring emergency,” Fury added. 

“We recognize the risk in presenting a target, however, the rewards would be …. Did you have a question?”

Steve lowered his hand. “Um, no I just… I really thought I was done with the dog and pony show. How come you stopped? You talked right over him.”

“I know what he’s going to say,” she said, and Fury actually grinned. Steve was hard put not to twitch. She continued, “Your involvement will be as limited as we can, but please communicate with me if you feel you are, go ahead Fury, say it.”

“Me? I was just gonna offer the Captain here a flare gun to --“ Fury’s pocket beeped. He pulled out his phone and lost his smile. As he rose, he pointed at Steve, who was half out of his chair, then pointed at the table. Steve dropped back into his seat, facing the formidable Brenda as Fury walked out of the room.

She tapped her fingers. He kept his hands on the table and focused all of his energy on not squirming. She sighed. “And yet, I can’t get your compatriot to shut up. Talk to me, Agent Rogers.”

“I really don’t want to sing and dance on stage, ma’am.”

Her smile was disarmingly sweet. “I promise, I won’t make you dance. Kissing babies is also off the table.” 

“Oh thank you,” he said, and realized how it sounded when she tilted her head at him. “Not that I don’t like babies! Babies are great! I mean… they …" He sighed. "They throw up unexpectedly. It’s .. awkward.”

“I’m not putting you on tour, Captain, just coordinating an event for which you need to show up, mind your manners, and if possible, keep Iron Man’s mask on and mouth shut.”

“I’ll do my best.” 

“Yeah, I wish you more luck than I’ve had.”


	2. Annual Invitational Golf Tournament

Fury flipped the file closed and handed it to Coulson. “ … and that’s all we know until the boys in the lab start casting runes and lighting candles. One more thing, people. Rogers, do you know how to play golf?”

“Golf?”

“I’ll take that as a no. You’ll be caddying.”

“For you, sir?”

“Ahahahaha no. For whatever Raytheon VP pulls the right strings to get you to haul his balls around.” Fury spun an orange and white book across the table toward him and Steve reached out to grab it automatically. 

Tony leaned back in his chair. “Assuming a Stark Industries …”

“You are prohibited from playing as a donor. Take it as the concession it is; it keeps you off the celebrity side, too.”

“But you’re pimping out Captain America?” Tony sneered.

“Yes, I am,” Fury snapped back and Steve tuned them both out to flip through the Complete Idiot's Guide to Golf. 

The day of the tournament was lovely, bright and sunny, and Steve reminded himself that he could have asked Thor to intercede and chose not to inflict a hurricane on the Eastern seaboard. It made him feel a little better, maybe, as he dressed in the blue polo and gray slacks that Coulson had dropped off the day before. He should be grateful he was allowed to comb his own hair, he thought as he did so. At eight, he was picked up in one of SHIELD's fleet of identical nondescript cars and by nine, he stood with Brenda, who flicked his hair back with a casual hand and gave him a ballcap with the SHIELD logo embroidered on it. 

"This is Robert; he knows what he's doing." She pointed to a man all in white behind her and Steve put his hand forward, possibly a little too eagerly, as Robert startled away before sticking his own hand out to shake. 

"I'm so happy you're here," Steve said.

Brenda handed him a card that looked reassuringly like the one in Fury's golf book and he hesitated, wondering how to fit "General (retired) Jimmie V. Adams" into a short box even with a tiny pencil and whether "Call me Vic, son" Fazio really wanted to be Vic on a scorecard. Robert took the card and pencil from him and Steve grabbed both sets of clubs and obediently followed everyone else to the tee at four.

By the sixth, he was pulling clubs as Adams asked for them, and by the twelfth he watched silently and wondered just how hard putting could be. After all, it was just angles, and surely the green wasn't complicated enough to justify five shots at the hole. The sun got hotter as it broke over the trees and the water hazards became positively magnetic after noon.

They met up with the official event photographer at ten and Steve stepped carefully behind the others and bent his knees just a little, anticipating the request. He smiled and filled his mind with the blue of the sky and the green of the grass and the pretty girls walking carefully in short skirts and high heels on the cart path. 

As they finished eighteen, Robert had to grab his arm and remind him that they didn't start at one, so he took off for the first tee, leading the others, as they'd begun to wilt in the humid afternoon. 

Finishing the round involved another series of photographs and introductions and a whirling throng of people he'd never meet again. He waited for Brenda's nod before he declined an offer to join the crowd and the press for a round at the Nineteenth Hole and headed for the parking lot after a quick wave to Robert. The agent in yet another interchangeable SHIELD car drove in silence and Steve marveled at the AC blowing air so cold the sweat gelled, sticky on his arms.

He hit the front door with a sigh of relief, happy to shed the smiling mask he'd worn all day. Voices, friendly voices, or at least known voices, called with a stronger siren pull than even his shower and he leaned in the kitchen doorway. “Tony, I’ve decided I don’t like golf.”

“That’s because you haven’t played it right,” Tony said without looking up from his laptop.

He pulled out a chair from the big table and sat, slouching slowly to stretch his back and shoulders. “There’s a right way? That doesn’t include wearing plaid trousers or drinking warm beer?”

“Yep, mixed foursomes. Strip golf.” Tony blinked at his screen, turned to a slice of congealed pizza on a paper towel at his elbow and poked at it, then took a bite. “What you were missing, my friend," he said with his mouth full, "was the very essence of golf.”

“This is where you say something about balls and holes, isn’t it?”

“I am dismayed at your poor opinion of me. No. Golf is a lovely walk in a manicured park. With scotch. Scotch is the essence of golf. That’s why the plaid. All things Scottish. Possibly even bagpipes. Haggis. And it’s sure as hell not the short game.” 

Natasha stepped around the corner. “That’s because you have no short game, Stark.”

"Jeez, how long have you been there? No, don't answer that. Putting is for accountants. I bet Coulson is the king of the green."

"As a matter of fact, he is, but he's got a beautiful drive, as well," she answered. She faced Steve more fully. “Are you sunburned?”

"No, well, yes, but I won't be tomorrow. You play golf? You play golf with Agent Coulson?"

"I play most common sports well enough to blend in for assignments."

"Shush, I'm imagining you in tennis whites." Tony closed his eyes and waved his hands in mid air. "Collared shirt, micro-mini, anklet socks with fuzzy balls at the --"

"Do you want to bring up balls at this point?"

"Who's Natasha balling now?" Clint asked. She flipped a spoon end over end at his face. He grabbed it before it could hit, grinned, and stuck it in his mouth as he leaned past her to pull open the refrigerator.

"Steve's been playing golf," she said.

"So that's why he's dressed like an office dweeb." 

"Hey," Tony said, as Steve smoothed the front of his slacks self-consciously. "I work in an office."

"My point." Clint fished out a yogurt and spun to face Steve, shouldering the door closed. "Now Frisbee golf, that's different." Natasha took the cup from his hand and he made a face, then turned back to the fridge for another.

Tony was staring at his back with comically wide eyes. "Barton, you're a genius."

"Pretty sure I'm the only one in the room who isn't, actually," Clint said, his head wholly inside the fridge. "Since I just let the last strawberry yogurt get away. Oh!" He withdrew and faced Steve with a grin on his face and a peach yogurt in his hand. "Holy crap, I _am_ a genius. Find us a park, Tony. Steve, go put shorts on."

"No. I've had enough golf for one day, thanks."

Clint and Natasha traded glances, but it was Tony who said, "That's because you weren't playing with us."

Tony didn't play for long, in the end. He bowed out and let the other three take ever-more impossible and often aerial routes to the chain nets, all the while dictating new rules on the fly including blocking, body-checking and whether nerve pinches were allowed, and eventually pulling out his cellphone to take pictures. 

Like the photos from earlier in the day, Steve was smiling in every one. Unlike the photos from earlier in the day, his smile was genuine.


	3. Match.com

Steve closed the door behind him quietly, though he could have slammed it. Given the way Brenda was staring at Tony, he doubted either of them noticed he'd come in. Coulson nodded from across the room and Steve nodded back. 

“If it’s not you....” Brenda said, very clearly, with all the consonants harsh. 

“Why the hell would I do something like this?"

"Your taste in practical jokes at MIT was legendary --"

"When I was a kid. And this isn't a practical joke to whatshername." Tony actually sounded worried with the last bit.

She rubbed at her eyes, the anger fading from her face. "Not you, not Barton, Rogers maybe?”

“Doubt it. The initial account predates the 'we do not use all caps' conversation.” Tony poked at the tablet in front of him and Brenda flipped through screens on her laptop so quickly that Steve couldn't even tell what they were.

Coulson asked, his voice level, "Could someone have hacked your system?”

Tony snorted, "Yeah, because anyone who hacks JARVIS is going to use that access to sign up for online dating.” 

Steve stepped forward, now that they seemed to be working together instead of just shouting. "I’m pretty sure I’m not following the conversation."

"A young lady in Manhattan announced that she’s dating an Avenger," Brenda said, as she spun the screen on her computer to face Steve. There was a picture of a pretty enough girl in one corner and a bunch of smaller photos on the side. 

Steve shrugged. “Oh, well, that’s allowed, right?”

“So you did sign up on Match.com?” Brenda pinned him with a look and Steve suddenly felt a lot like a butterfly at the Science Museum. Or maybe one of the beetles. 

He shook his head. “I’m pretty sure I didn’t. Is she dating me? Or claiming to, because I'm not dating her. Wait, doesn’t she know who she’s seeing?”

"She has exchanged emails over the last several months with a man who gave her a common first and last name, who failed to respond to her emails the week of June third and who references retail locations around his workplace that match those near the SSR building." 

Steve frowned. "The first week of June. Wasn't that when …?”

“Yes, when we were all, quite honestly, too busy for personal email. In addition, her correspondent has close friends who correlate superficially with all of you and who has mentioned a familiarity with certain events. She determined that she was dating an Avenger and …" she made a face Steve couldn't immediately interpret. "Tweeted.” Oh, that was Bruce's _Thor's been eating leftovers out of the trash again_ face.

From context, he was pretty sure tweeting was one of the internet forum board chat things that Tony took such delight in mocking. "If it's not one of us, then what would someone else have to gain from impersonating ... no, I'm sorry. I don't understand any of this or why it's --" 

"Aha!" Tony crowed. “I've got good news and better news. Our mystery Lothario isn't me, not Steve, not Banner, not Barton.” Tony set the tiny tablet down with a grin. “Jarvis is running a Turing test.”

"A what?" Brenda and Steve said together. He was confused; she sounded upset. 

“I know, right?" Tony wiggled in his chair and grinned like a kid. "At first I was appalled, but now I’m kind of impressed."

“I’m staying with appalled," she said.

Tony gaped, his astonishment surprisingly honest and endearing. “Hey! Better Jarvis than half the losers on there. No, better Jarvis than _three-fourths_ the losers on there. He’s not married and looking for a no-strings tumble on the side, or hiding a felony record, or living on cheesy poofs and Mountain Dew in his mother’s basement. Any girl would be lucky to snag Jarvis.”

From the corner of the room, Coulson said, “Tony, he’s an artificial intelligence.”

"With no felonies!" It wasn't so much a whine as a shriek.

"He lives in your walls," Coulson said.

“Does that count as his father’s basement? No, wait, you’re right, maybe it does. I should give him a separate address.”

Brenda hit the table with the palm of her hand, the sudden sharp noise catching all of them. “Getting him off Match.com would do, Mr. Stark. I'll handle the ...”

"Breakup?" Tony suggested.

"Disentanglement," she said and snapped her laptop closed.


	4. Women and Children Advocacy Center presentation at the Knicks/Lakers game - Madison Square Garden

Clint glanced up at Coulson. “I respectfully…” Tony rolled his eyes and Clint talked over whatever he was going to interrupt with. “I cannot work undercover if I’m on the Jumbotron. Surely Stark or …”

“If I may, sir?” Brenda slid the mouse to the second folder and double-clicked. “Bystander and publicly posted footage from the Central Park incident.” She clicked through a series of several shots of varying quality of Clint leaning out the window, drawing, of Clint being pushed away from the building by the explosion, of Clint mid-roll, a particularly unflattering look of dismay on his face, of Clint firing as he walked over still shifting rubble, his bow string a blur of motion. She stopped on a motion shot, the smear of the arrow at the left of the screen and Barton himself so still he seemed posed, balanced on the twisted rebar and broken concrete at his feet.

Clint frowned at the screen. “That’s not a cell phone. Look at the curve of the horizon. That’s a long lens.”

“Yes, Specialist Barton, you merit paparazzi.”

“SHIELD can’t take those down? Digitize over my face or something? I …That’s…”

“The price for not having your peripheral vision obscured in the field.”

“This is why Clark Kent wears glasses.” He leaned back in the chair, swiveling it back and forth in agitation. 

“Buy a baseball cap for your off hours if you like, but you’ll be in uniform for the game.” Brenda pulled another folder open to click through those shots, and they watched themselves in silence for a moment. 

Clint asked her to pause and she did. He tossed a paperclip at Steve. “That’s a weird shot. Do you really make that face when you throw the shield?”

Steve considered the image on the wall. “Apparently.”

Tony breezed in. “There’s a reason we’ve got Steve’s O-face on the board? Not that I’m complaining, mind.” He threw himself into a chair, spun and faced Brenda with a smile. “I’m itching for photoshop and a screencap of gay porn.”

“Given that we don’t officially know about any site that’s photoshopping anyone’s face onto anything, please don’t tell me your user ID,” Brenda said while Steve tried to figure out what an O-face was.

“IMluvsCap, of course.” Tony grinned evilly. “Or it should be. If I had one. Which I don’t. Can you take that down? It’s distracting.”

“Oh!” said Steve.

“You just figured out what we were talking about.”

Steve blushed. “Tony, there are ladies present.”

“It’s the ladies with Photoshop that … right, right, shutting up. Why’s Barton been chewing lemons?”

“I’m fucked for undercover work forevermore.” Clint crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat, stilling it. Normally he swiveled it until it squeaked, but now he was just twitching one foot in irritation.

“You were planning on leaving us?” Steve asked. 

“I wasn’t planning on … on this.”

“Welcome to my world.” Tony said as he thumbed at the screen of his phone.

Clint growled, “You can keep it.”

Tony looked up and grinned, the sharp edged one he usually saved for the hospital or when he knew he was in the wrong. “There’s one way no one will recognize you.”

“Let me guess, a Scooby Doo rubber mask?”

“You’re thinking Mission Impossible with the stupid masks. No, even easier. Smile. No one will know it’s you.” 

Clint stood and walked out of the room. Tony responded to Fury’s glare with an exaggerated look of confusion and “What’d I say?” 

\--::--

Agent Coulson, with Clint in tow, met him at the parking structure at Madison Square and Steve refused to let himself admit he was relieved. He could understand Barton's reluctance, could empathize with it, even, but a part of him was just happy that he wasn't doing this alone. They walked through the concrete of the tunnel between locker rooms and stood, shoulder to shoulder, a matched set in white button downs and black jackets sporting the SHIELD logo on the sleeve. A too loud voice over the PA shouted syllables that didn't resolve into words and the lights swung to hit them. He could feel Clint twitch, dropping his near shoulder and bending at the knees for an instant, then immediately reversing it to raise his hand into a wave. 

Steve waved and the crowd roared and now he had to fight not to react. The echoes of the space, the hard floors and too high ceiling transformed the sound, applause and human voices and echoes mixing to become monstrous and alien.

A line of scantily-clad women led them to seats near the edge of the court and Steve dropped into one with a fixed smile and a headache creeping up his neck to settle behind his ears. Clint, next to him, twisted sideways to whisper to the man behind him and Steve glanced over. Agent Sitwell, wearing civilian clothing, raised one eyebrow, then cupped his hands and shouted a name. He glanced at the people behind him who were all waving cell phones or beer bottles or talking to one another and very carefully not making eye contact with him and recognized faces, wildly out of place in bright clothing. He settled properly into the hard seating of the arena. 

They didn't bother trying to watch the game. The crowd response kept him apprised of the score well enough, and he caught Clint checking exits and sniper positions only because he was doing the same. 

"Too open," he said quietly.

"That, too," Clint agreed, then he rubbed his hand over his face. "Rather be on the couch, with a beer."

"I don't think they'd object to ... I mean, you could ... " Steve trailed off as Clint turned to face him, one eyebrow up, smirking. "You're over twenty one?"

"I don't want my beer choice analyzed by the gossip sites. Or Brenda." He nodded behind Steve at the woman in question, who was descending the stairs toward them, clipboard in hand and wearing a San Antonio Spurs sweatshirt. She dropped to a knee in the aisle, one hand resting on Steve's knee, low enough to not be intimate. 

"Please tell me you've been practicing."

"Yes, ma'am," Steve answered. And he had, for the two weeks since they found out they’d be doing this, been practicing downstairs in Tony’s garage, between the cars, with a real ball and a basket made of light that blinked when he made the shot and sang a mocking wah wah wah the five times he’d missed. Not that he’d counted or anything. Clint waggled his hand sideways and shrugged and Brenda narrowed her eyes at him. 

She pulled them up and onto the court, their shoes squeaking against the almost sticky floor, entirely unlike the concrete in Tony's garage or the grass-cracked asphalt of the streets where real people played this game. She handed him an oversized cardboard check and he juggled all three foot of it, smiling for the camera, stepping back to keep Clint from hiding entirely. He handed it over to a muted roar of approval, then grimaced as he took the ball. Far too aware of the tv camera behind him, Steve stepped carefully to the free throw line, bounced the ball twice, carefully aimed and shot, and held his breath until it swooshed through the net. A young lady in a white tee shirt gathered the ball to her with easy grace, dribbled it past him to center court, where she passed it to Clint, who grinned at the solid thunk as he caught it. Clint winked at him, and he stepped forward, muttering, "Do it right". Clint feinted, as though Steve was defending the basket, pivoted away and dribbled to the three point line, then stopped, propped the ball on his hip, and held one hand to his ear. The crowd booed and Steve looked to Brenda for explanation, but she was staring at Clint in restrained amusement. Clint ducked his head, dribbled to center court and held the ball over his head to riotous applause. Steve judged the distance to the basket and stepped out to the side to clear the center of the court as Clint paused, tilted his head in a way Steve recognized from the practice range, and shifted his weight to draw up one knee, almost coquettishly, then throw with casual assurance. The ball went through the net in silence, before the crowd erupted and Clint laughed as he seldom did, a single cheerful whoop. 

Brenda and the suits with her, one of them now carrying the cardboard, were walking toward him, so he waited and as they approached, he could hear Clint say, "...than I expected, but I really don't want to do any of these again."

"I will try to keep your involvement to a minimum," she said and they waved as they walked back toward the concrete tunnel.


	5. Médecins Sans Frontières

Pepper returned to the table as the lights dimmed and Tony took the stage, every inch the Stark scion in bespoke suit and Italian shoes. He stood straighter than usual, but the cut of the jacket hid the binding around his ribs, and she thought, for a fleeting moment, of how often he'd hidden other injuries beneath similar suits, or even the other suit. 

He was less able to hide in casual clothing, which is why, she thought, he wore the suits so often, even just to run her personally to the airport a year before. She'd been dressed for an international flight and landing with few amenities; he'd been spotless and every inch in control. Funny, then, that he hadn't been, not at all.

_"I can provide my own fashion commentary, Tony, and I know how to do it quietly, so if that is all..."_

_"No, it isn't all, rhinestones across the ass isn't a good look on anyone."_

_"I'm going to be with these people for a while, Mr. Stark. I'd prefer you not alienate them at this point."_

_"You shouldn't be with them," he whined. "Or I should be there. I should be there. It’s a field test. What if something doesn’t work?"_

_"No, Tony and that’s the second reason you are not here. These need to go into the field to be used by other people, not just you." She let her bag fall onto his foot._

_He didn't back off. "Wait a minute, if field test is the second reason, what’s the first?"_

_"What?" she hedged, hoping for a distraction._

_"What’s the first reason I can’t come to Turkey with you?"_

_She spotted Natalie walking toward them and lifted her bag. Tony took the strap and pulled it over his own shoulder. She let him, but said, "This is not an Avengers project or a SHIELD one. And the last thing a refugee camp needs is what follows you around."_

_"The lightly lingering aroma of expensive cologne?"_

_"Paparazzi and supervillains."_

_He pointed to where Natalie was waiting for them, closer to the plane. "Natasha gets to go."_

_"_ Natalie _is my employee," Pepper said, and she started toward the stairway._

_"She’s armed?" Tony said, and Pepper wondered who else would hear the concession in his tone._

_"She’s alive, therefore she’s armed. Tony, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry."_

_She glanced back before entering the plane and he raised an arm in a wave. By the time she'd settled into a seat and to a window, he'd gone._

"So let's get this spotlight off of me, just for the moment, though!" Tony said and the audience chuckled as though rehearsed, "and to a little summary of the project in question."

They did get Davenport to do the voiceover, she thought, pleased. The screen filled with images of the aftershocks, of rubble, of dogs sniffing for bodies and stretchers being carried over broken buildings, supporting equally broken bodies, the now iconic photo of the cloud of dust with the mosque in the foreground. Pepper rubbed under her nose, remembering the dust, the contrast of noise and silence, the stink of latrines and the sharp burn of antiseptic in the makeshift hospital, beating back nature by sheer force of imported chemicals.

She'd stood amid black cases of hardened plastic at the edge of the recovery area, waiting for prospective testers. She'd hoped for three. They brought seven, all young, light, well within the parameters of the equipment and what had seemed sensible at home - smaller testing subjects wouldn't stress the prototypes - was heartbreaking here. These were children. She took another breath and tried not to sneeze. 

The translator gave them a running freeform explanation correcting her words mid-sentence rather than pausing for grammar, as the doctors explained to the kids, to their guardians, that the injuries were too new, too raw to use a standard mechanical prosthetic and described how this new technology, the folding metal, didn't put weight on the end of the leg, but rather molded itself to the area above. 

She let the words wash over her, because she could see their reactions, as the oldest boy shrank back, swinging the crutches wildly to bring himself back into balance, as another looked to her, to Natalie beside her, with alarm. She didn't move, didn't plead their case. There were other clinics and far too many patients who met height, weight, and injury parameters and she reached for the handle of the nearest case, stopping at the tone, not the words, from a young girl. Pepper glanced to the translator, but the girl turned to her and said in careful French, "{I am not afraid.}" 

Her hand trembled, but she stuck out her jaw in overt bravado, so Pepper patted the table beside her and toed the case under it. The translator launched into the pre-written script, explaining what would happen, but Pepper reached up and held the girl's hand before she touched the release. She was gripped, too tightly, as the moldable clicked up and over, closing cold metal in a band three inches above and below her knee, ballooning out below that, then clicking into the rounded bar. "Attente." Pepper’s French was adequate for most of her needs, but she hadn't used it much lately, so she stuck to nouns and verbs. “{Water resistant, not water proof. Rain, but not to swim. You can stand?}” Pepper tugged and the girl slid off the table, clutching at Pepper's shirt as the gleaming silver hummed and clicked as it extended to match her height. Pepper held her by the shoulders for a moment then let go as she took her first step. 

The spotlight hit her and she smiled smoothly, automatically, carefully not squinting into the glare as the presentation on screen showed the footage of Derya walking around the clinic, unsteady, as the lights of the robotic prosthetic glimmered and blinked. 

Tony stepped back to the microphone as the lights came back up and the screen glowed with the StarkMed logo. “We help a lot of people, but we can’t help everyone. Stark Medical is a proud supporter of, and donor to, Médecins Sans Frontières.”


End file.
